Heaven is her headache
a palm stroke thrust
through back of his hair
she rests in arms.
It’s the malignancy,
or that Might thinks it knows
what is right for me.
I’ve grown old,
too old to be
the Fool’s fool.
turn the mirror ’round
and show what I see.
another message in a bottle
not fast enough
for the next high-jacking attempt
of generations by homogeneity
another shattered mirror
another broken record
with out apologies.
another message in a bottle..
I only wonder what will be.
hands too small to not unleash
glorious monstrosities
from the sensing of another’s
work day’s batch lover
projections and connections
projected connections
connected projections
so coherent they’d say its madness
got me?
the host ghost’s mostly
mirrored humans get me…
still life in a car
the old dinosaur
love flickers on a wall
hands are too small
baked from the inside
don’t… you.. wish?
don’t… you.. wish?
feet delta bromo blue
hands too small for the beast
eyes wide as the morning star
you were and still are the mirror,
man
got me?
for Don Glen Vliet aka “Captain Beefheart” (1941-2010)
a creative inspiration.
unbounded stillness of me
potential energy within
cultivates being in this World
affect born from formlessness
the mechanical bindings of us
potent, kinetic exchanging between
encroaching , yielding
fueling, freeing,
organic machines within machines
of the Machine
fire, water, wind,
Earth
NovaTao (yin-yang) made with GIMP, Engine Gear animation made with a Winamp Visuaization maker I can no longer find.
Neither smile, nor glance, nor hips
neither touch, nor gesture, nor whisper
can give a description fully,
other than they are HERS
No mathematics can summate,
no science can find the root of effect
It is only 'SHE' in the LIVING instant
And the exhilaration she generates within ME.
both versions previously posted.
Meditation:
the realization that wakefulness is
where a mind forms freedom.
mind takes form
form of body,
body takes form
form of connecting,
connecting takes form
of being,
being takes form
form of emancipation.
emancipation of unreal ghostly formless dreams.
for what haunts in the night…
will continue to hold on
if not for the days work
on freedom.
you have yet to see just what we can could do
you have yet to see just what we could be
when a jealous world wishes to stand in the way
(frustrating when too many can’t stand a good thing.)
…but passion is more than electromagneticity
…the passion is more than electromagneticity.
hammers and nail,
heaven and earth
we’ll rebuild our own world
brush-strokes and text,
your thoughts and mine
we’ll rewrite our own world .
an old jealous world can’t break the promises I’ve made..
It’s never seen just we can could do.
It’s never seen just we will be.
your heart and mine
your heart and mine
already knows what we will do
already knows what we will be.
One sees the trees by the side walk,
But does anyone here know there names?
We walk by them and through there shade.
touch their bark and eat their fruit.
Only the children know there names.
The sun strikes the clouds
giving chase
to a distant dull gray
(San Francisco Visited – incomplete draft)
I went into the neon light
shopping for the images
painted on the cemented pages
of dead writers and lost poets
.
I sat in Joe’s drinking cans
then stared at a dying Bay
counting black treadless tires
to dream of a lost America
discovered old poems drafts by my father, or “my old Man”. He recently passed away.
The drafts were written around 1970, when my Dad was in military service.
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